(OR: THE FINE ART OF BELIEVABLE RELATIONSHIPS)
by John Skipp
Dear class –
Great to see you again! And you’ll be either relieved or saddened to know that nobody has to die today. At least not in THIS class! (Sorry, Victor! Rest in peace, bro!)
This time, I’m gonna pull a reluctant “volunteer” from the furthest reaches of the classroom. And not one of you jokers in the back row, neither!
I need a relative loner today. One that’s off to the side, sitting by themselves, never raising their hand, but thinking about it a lot…
Yes, you! The elegantly-funky young lady in the pin-striped blazer and the neat fedora…
HO HO! Did you guys hear that horrible groan? That’s the sound of a Mystery Woman, about to be exposed. COME ON DOWN, YOU! It’s too late to argue. You’ve already been chosen.
THAT’LL teach ya to come to my fucking class!
Okay. So as she walks trepeditiously down to the front, with all of your glimmering eyes upon her, LET’S GIVE HER A BIG WARM HAND, everybody!
(Clappity clappity clap!)
Hi! Come on up. You look so embarrassed. It’s funny. See, you don’t dress like a shy person, but clearly you are. What’s your name…? Wow.
Cameron Delancey.
I don’t know you at all, but it seems to fit you very well.
So let’s take a look at your personal profile here, while you stand helplessly before us. Ready? Ah! AGAIN WITH THE HORRIBLE GROAN!
(Clappity clappity clap!)
So let’s see. You’re 37 years old. Five two. 140 pounds, give or take. Dark-eyed. Sharp-witted. Used to taking care of yourself.
Born in the country, hit the city on your own and never looked back. Prefer parks to wilderness, and urban decay to either. Are obsessed with watching struggling people, and trying to understand their lives.
You’ve been writing in your journal since you were five – is that really true? – but the only real writings you share with others are the letters and notes that you write to your friends.
So why are you in this class?
Because you like to watch people think.
Well, that’s about as good a reason as I can possibly imagine. SO HERE’S YOUR BIG CHANCE!
And here’s your assignment, boys and girls:
INVENT A FRIEND FOR CAMERON DELANCEY.
By which I mean a friend that she might actually have.
Popular entertainment is rife with convenient relationships, often born of narrative contrivance or the handy-dandy “Stock Friend” bin. Like the sitcom gay neighbor, or the best friend from high school that – 20 years later – still comes by every day to gossip or kvetch.
Mind you, I’m not ruling out hilarious gay neighbors or persistent high school pals, per se. I’m just saying that shit is easy. And when you do it, discerning readers are more apt to roll their eyes than not.
So think about the friends that you’ve valued through your life. WHY DO THEY MATTER? What’s the actual connection? What is that special confluence of elements that makes you want to hang out, as opposed to the trillion other people you might welcome into your life?
There are social components, emotional components, intellectual components, and situational components. Let’s not rule out the sexual, the spiritual, the codependent, the opportunistic, or the wholly dysfunctional.
From the safe and the true to the doomed and the damned, there’s a gamut of genuine connection that all of us experience with the people that matter in our lives.
Some relationships are clearly healthier than others.
But every time you make or discover a friend, there are actual reasons behind it.
So that’s your challenge. GIVE CAMERON A FRIEND. Describe that person well enough that we get why those two care about each other. Then briefly describe the relationship, in ways that illuminate not only her friend, but Cameron herself.
And while you’re at it, TRY TO MAKE IT FUN: both for yourself and the rest of the class.
If you can do that, you are well on your way to writing stories that people might actually care about.
Extra credit for anyone who makes me believe it.
Yer stern yet grinning taskmaster,
Skipp
16 Comments, Comment or Ping
Dave Wilson
I may get to the actual exercise later, but I found Cameron a friend. When you started out, I thought you were “outing” some friend of yours who read SU but never posted, so I stopped early and GOOGLED (I love that this is a noun) the name Cameron Delancey…who is a sort of androgynous looking young fella from New York, according to MYSPACE.
So, since YOUR Cameron has been journaling since age 5, blogging was a natural next step. When she went on line, one or the other of them googled the other…found the same name, different lives, and they began leaving comments on one another’s blogs. The’ve never met, but they share a private pair of worlds - one name - two people - two lives, and eventually they take turns writing fictional blog entries for one another, imagining what it would be like to trade places…
DNW
Jan 5th, 2008
Elizabeth Massie
Great essay, Skipp! This should be an activity in any creative writing class…though in that case it might be better to use an actual fictional character description rather than a real person who might beat the hell out of you in the alley afterwards if they weren’t keen on being the subject of said activity.
But anyhoo, what a super approach to relational development for characters….the connections they (we) make for whatever reasons, and all those reasons being sustained because each gets something out of the friendship. Be it a good something or an ultimately harmful something.
Here here!
There there!
Beth
Jan 5th, 2008
John B. Rosenman
As Eve said when she saw that apple, “Verrrry interesting!” This would indeed make a great exercise or activity for a creative writing class. I may try it the next time they let me teach one. Actually, this reminds me of the little kid with an imaginary friend that no one but he believes in.
Hmmm, you know, while we may think otherwise, many of our friends are imaginary. Think about it.
Jan 5th, 2008
John Skipp
Dear class — Okay, so one thing is clear: killing people is WAAAAAAY more fun than making friends. At least in literary terms.
Or maybe everybody’s just burned out from the holidays. I KNOW I AM!
That said: I’ll be checking in all weekend, to see if any good stuff pops up. I definitely hope it does.
Dear Dave — I love what you did, man. It was a great, fascinating angle of attack. And it yielded, for you, the bones of a full-fledged story.
Which, I think, raises a significant point:
Story IS relationships. Whether it’s a relationship between two people, or the relationship between one person and a mysterious force of nature, or both. We are the dots, and relationships are the things that allow us to connect them.
Within the connection lies the story. The story is essentially WHAT HAPPENS as a result of those connections.
You put certain ingredients together, and it’s delicious. You put certain other ones together, and they blow up everything around them.
Anyway, I digress. GREAT JOB!
Dear Beth and John — If I used this methodology in a classroom setting, I would DEFINITELY make up a character, as I did with young Cameron. I would no more drag up a live person for character dissection than I would a live person for ACTUAL dissection. (LOVE YOU, VICTOR! ROCK ON!)
If you do it, make sure you give me props! That’s all I’m sayin’.
And THANKS!
Dear class again — It’s less important that you perform this exercise, and post it here at SU, than that you internalize this exercise for home use. If you use this kind of thinking in your fiction, it just might work out for you. And for those of us who might be inclined to read you.
Finally: today, I held a table-reading of the massively-rewritten JAKE’S WAKE script. A dozen actors gathered around the dining room table and read the whole thing out loud.
I bring this up because it was amazing to watch them interact. Even though it was a reading — not a rehearsal, or a performance per se — I was able to watch them react to each other, interact with each other, and bring all kinds of little things to the event that weren’t on the page itself.
For one thing, palpable personality.
In theater and film, that’s how it is, and how it has to be. And it’s great.
But when you’re writing fiction, you have to do it all yourself.
Creating real relationships on the page, with the story, allows the reader to fill it in the way an actor fills it in. The more natural and real it is, the easier it rolls off the reader’s brain-tongue. The more you buy it. The more you’re actively along for the ride.
In conclusion: I’M TIRED! Long day!
But I’ll check in tomorrow.
And again, hope that this stuff comes in handy.
Yer pal,
Skipp
Jan 5th, 2008
Martel Sardina
It’s 3 am. Cameron and I are sitting in the twenty-four hour Starbucks. She’s here because she likes to watch the bums panhandle. I’m here because I like to watch Cameron when they get thrown out. For someone who’s had the life Cameron’s had, you’d think that she wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about what happens to anyone else. If I’d had her life, I know I wouldn’t. But for some reason, she thinks she understands these people. For some reason, she thinks she has to save them.
I don’t know why she can’t let go of the past. She lives in a luxury condo in Lincoln Park overlooking Lake Michigan and the zoo. She can afford a real bed. But she likes to sleep on the oak floor in her clothes with that ratty old blanket she got on lower Wacker before Daley knocked her cardboard house down. She says she’s sorry she let me talk her into buying this place. I couldn’t let her buy the place she really wanted in Englewood. Allowing her to live in a boarded up former crack house didn’t seem like the best way to get over Detroit. To forget about what happened there.
While we sip lattes and wait for Reggie to show up, she writes in her journal. She claims that she’s been keeping a journal since she was five years old. But when I ask her questions, try to get her to open up a little; she flips the page and starts doodling. She draws skinny doe-eyed women but dresses them in her clothes. Maybe she’s drawing herself before Detroit. Maybe she’s trying to remember who she was, or maybe she’s trying to figure out who she wants to be.
Reggie arrives fifteen minutes later than usual. Something bad must’ve happened because he’s not talking to himself. He’s chewing on a filthy, white t-shirt instead. He’s got money though. He walks up to the counter. The barista doesn’t make eye contact. She rings up a tall Americano, gives him change from the crumpled up five. She frowns as she touches the bill, closes the drawer and goes to the sink to wash her hands. Probably not a bad idea. Who can say where Reggie has been?
Reggie’s hands shake as he picks the cup up from the counter. He fumbles with the lid and winds up spilling most of the coffee. He spits out the t-shirt, looks at the ceiling and starts talking to the man.
“Just want a cup of coffee, mothafucka. Why you have to start fuckin’ wit me?”
The drunken frat boys laugh.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
They shake their heads and move a few tables away.
“Cocksuckers.”
The barista heads back toward the register, presumably preparing to push the panic button. It’s not the first time the man has come between Reggie and a cup of Joe.
Cameron gets up. She walks over to the register, orders another tall Americano and pays for it.
The barista asks, “Why are you doing this?”
Cameron’s dark eyes narrow, “Because no one else will.”
When the coffee’s ready, Cameron removes the lid. She picks up Reggie’s shirt and says, “Excuse me, sir. I think you dropped this.”
Reggie turns, takes the shirt from her extended hand.
“Sir? I think you took the wrong cup of coffee. Yours wasn’t supposed to have a lid.” Cameron slides the cup along the counter towards him.
Reggie looks down at the cup he’s holding, the lid accompanying the mess on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says. “ I spilled some of yours.” He puts the half-empty cup back on the counter. Then stoops down and uses the t-shirt to sop up the mess.
“That’s okay,” Cameron says. “It happens.”
Reggie takes the second cup. His hands have steadied a bit. He takes a sip. He looks up at the ceiling and says, “Best not fuck wit me again.”
Reggie leaves. Cameron’s done her good deed. Probably saved more than one life tonight, though I don’t know if the lives she saved were worth a four-dollar cup of coffee. All I know is no matter what happened in Detroit, Cameron’s one of the good ones and I’m proud to be her friend.
Jan 6th, 2008
Celeste Talbert
René Rowntree’s real name is Rhonda, but she says Rhonda is a fat girl’s name. She wears bright red lipstick and collects film noir posters. René is obsessed with art and music of all sorts from before 1960, and she’s turned off by modernity. Ironically, during the day, she does promotions for a shitty pop music radio station, but she comforts herself at night by listening to really old country music on record albums. She’s obsessed with the song “(I Got Spurs That) Jingle, Jangle, Jingle,” and conconcts elaborate fantasies about a love affair with Tex Ritter; her fantasy life keeps her awake at night. She does not dream when she sleeps.
From afar, René looks like an unapproachable, tight-lipped ice queen, but the closer you get, you can see all those hard lines, born out of a hard - if young - life, create a soft and sensual tapestry, which buoys her bright green eyes. She is 33 years old, and her best friend’s name is Cameron Delancey.
René is loud and funny, and she’s been breaking down Cam’s shell since the day they met in a long line to the women’s restroom at a garish T.G.I.Friday’s restaurant.
Both ladies were on terrible dates, and René spoke so openly and hilariously about her rather tragically doofusy beau, she won Cam over immediately. Cam quietly told René that her date was already flirting shamelessly with the hot young waitress, and it was only their first date. René looked right into her deep, cappucino-colored eyes and said, “Then what are we doing here, anyway? Fuck THIS. Wanna go dancing?”
They decided right then and there to ditch their dates. They walked right out the front door of the craptastic chain restuarant, not even bothering with stealth, giggling wildly, and danced until four that morning. It was the first time Cam had danced like that in her entire life. No one had EVER asked her to dance before.
They take lunch together every day at one and sit in the park. Cam tries eating a low-carb diet, but René forces bites of her cheeseburger or BLT on her, telling her she’s crazy to even think she needs a diet. Cam counsels her friend through her chronic, ill-fated relationship troubles, and reads to her from her journal. René marvels at how insightful and wise her friend is, even though she’s never had one lasting relationship.
Within eachother, both women find meaning and strength. And they never, ever argue.
Jan 6th, 2008
John Skipp
Okay. Now THAT’S MORE LIKE IT!
Dear Martel — To me, the most fascinating thing about your piece is that you gave Cameron a friend, but MADE THE FRIEND INVISIBLE. We got an observer, and a narrator, and a person who cares, but we don’t know who it is. A guy? A gal? A ghost? I don’t know!
So essentially, you did all the things that come with the exercise — a vivid, lived-in setting, great insights into Cam, and the beginning of a really interesting story (I WANNA KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN DETROIT!) — but you didn’t do the actual exercise itself.
The exercise became an inverted “black hole” type of affair, from which all the rest of the story’s life radiated.
And you know what? THAT’S GREAT! Now that I think about it, you’re the same one who completely rewrote the setup for Victor’s demise last time, right? So your m.o. is to get an assignment, take what you want, throw the rest out, and run with it. Cool.
Keep up the good work!
Dear Celeste — You, on the other hand, have done PRECISELY what I was asking for, with nearly textbook-case perfection.
From the very first sentence, I like Rene. Halfway through the first paragraph, I totally get her. And by the end of the first paragraph, I love her to bits.
Then, and only then, do you unleash her on Cam, in a wonderful scene that makes them both come alive, both as characters on a page and as real people on their own.
And I believe every speck of it. Which is the best part of all.
These two were totally born to be friends. They do things for each other, bring things to each other’s party, that each of them clearly needs. Of COURSE they would sit in the park and eat lunch: people-watching, life-sorting, enforcing the biting of cheeseburgers.
If I were to be walking through that park, I would totally smile at those women. And if I happened to frequent that park, I would wanna be their friend, too.
And if anything were to happen to them…
See? I’m already emotionally invested in these gals!
Now THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!
In other words, I think this is really terrific writing, which delivers on all of the counts we’re discussing, fulfills all of the criteria I specified above. It’s concise yet flavorful, full of the texture of life, fun to read, and emotionally acute. Plus, Cameron scores, with a great new friend!
Celeste, you get today’s first TRIPLE A++!!!
But thank you both for sharing excellent work. You’re the kind of people who make teaching this class a genuine pleasure.
Now WHO’S NEXT?
Still standing at the front of the class,
Skipp
Jan 6th, 2008
Martel Sardina
Dear Skipp -
I’m the student who drives the teacher crazy. I guess I have a problem following directions. In an effort to redeem myself, I rewrote the scene from Cameron’s POV. Maybe this version is more like what you were hoping for. What I really want to know is…(with either version) do I get the extra credit points for making you believe?
Hoping to avoid the dunce cap.
Yer pal,
Martel
Cameron & Friend Version #2
It’s 3 am. David and I are sitting in the twenty-four hour Starbucks. I’m here to keep Reggie from going to jail. David’s here to protect me in case things go terribly wrong. I’ve told him a million times that I don’t need his help or anyone’s help for that matter. Reggie’s not going to hurt me. All he wants to be treated like a human being. For the few minutes it takes to get his coffee, he has some semblance of normalcy. For those few minutes, he can forget about his life outside the glass doors. You’d think David would understand that because ever since he won my case, that’s all he’s been trying to give me. A sense of normalcy. For some reason, he thinks he understands me. For some reason, he thinks he’s my savior.
He wants to know why I can’t let go of the past. He talked me into buying a luxury condo in Lincoln Park overlooking Lake Michigan and the zoo. He says I should spoil myself a little. What’s the use of having all this money if I’m not going to use it to make my life better? He wants me to buy a real bed. He doesn’t understand why I like to sleep on the floor with the ratty old blanket from my old life. I don’t know how to make him understand that the ratty old blanket is the one thing that makes this place feel like home.
I’m sorry I let him talk me into buying this place. I really wanted to buy that place in Englewood. But David didn’t think allowing me to live in a boarded up crack house was the best way to get over Detroit. To forget about what happened there. Problem is, I don’t want to forget. Least not ‘til I get my revenge.
While we sip lattes and wait for Reggie to show up, I write in my journal. I’ve been keeping a journal since she was five years old. The pages are filled with all the moments that I don’t want to forget. David’s always asking questions, trying to get me to open up. He wants to know why the cops worked me over like they did. He won the case. He knows what the cops did was wrong. But there’s a part of him that wonders what I did to provoke them. There’s a part of him that wonders if I am worthy of being saved. To stop the questions, I flip the page and start doodling. I draw skinny doe-eyed women but dress them in my clothes. I draw the woman David wishes for. If I were her, we’d be more than friends.
Reggie arrives fifteen minutes later than usual. He’s chewing on a filthy, white t-shirt. He’s got money but he did something bad to get it. It won’t be long before the man starts in on him. The man is the only voice in his head that still knows right from wrong.
He walks up to the counter. The barista doesn’t make eye contact. If she doesn’t look at him she doesn’t have to admit that he exists. She rings up a tall Americano, gives him change from the crumpled up five. She frowns as she touches the bill, closes the drawer and goes to the sink to wash her hands.
Reggie’s hands shake as he picks the cup up from the counter. He fumbles with the lid and winds up spilling most of the coffee. He spits out the t-shirt, looks at the ceiling and starts talking to the man.
“Just want a cup of coffee, mothafucka. Why you have to start fuckin’ wit me?”
The drunken frat boys laugh.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
They shake their heads and move a few tables away.
“Cocksuckers.”
The barista heads back toward the register, presumably preparing to push the panic button. It’s not the first time the man has come between Reggie and a cup of Joe.
It won’t take much to keep Reggie from getting out of hand. David thinks I’m wasting my money, but if I’m not going to use it to make my life better, shouldn’t I use it to better someone else’s?
I walk over to the register, order another tall Americano and pay for it.
The barista asks, “Why are you doing this?”
I shoot daggers at her as I say, “Because no one else will.”
When the coffee’s ready, I remove the lid. I pick up Reggie’s shirt and say, “Excuse me, sir. I think you dropped this.”
Reggie turns, takes the shirt from my extended hand.
“Sir? I think you took the wrong cup of coffee. Yours wasn’t supposed to have a lid.” I slide the cup along the counter towards him.
Reggie looks down at the cup he’s holding, the lid accompanying the mess on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says. “ I spilled some of yours.” He puts the half-empty cup back on the counter. Then stoops down and uses the t-shirt to sop up the mess.
“That’s okay,” I say. “It happens.”
Reggie takes the second cup. His hands have steadied a bit. He takes a sip. He looks up at the ceiling and says, “Best not fuck wit me again.”
Reggie leaves. And now, I can go home. David will probably say that saving Reggie from himself isn’t worth a four-dollar cup of coffee. That it’s not my responsibility. It’s funny how he can’t see that taking my case was the same thing. It wasn’t his responsibility to save me.
All I know is that if not for Detroit, we wouldn’t have met. And even though he’s a lawyer, he’s one of the good ones and I’m glad to call him friend.
Jan 6th, 2008
John Skipp
Dear Martel — Wow, that’s a lotta solid extra work you just did! Which is, of course, its own reward.
So, no, no dunce cap fer you!
That said, however… I STILL DON’T KNOW THIS GUY.
He’s David. He’s a lawyer. He cares, and they value each other. That much I get. And that’s all cool.
And the door is definitely open to know more about him. Which it already was, back when the POV was switched.
But I still can’t see him.
Is he 30, 50, 70? What kind of coffee is HE drinking, or does he even drink it? What kind of law practice does he have? Is he a civil rights attorney? Is he a perennial thorn in the side of law enforcement? Or was her case an exception?
Does she have more money than he does? Is she a client-turned-pal?
And also, I gotta ask: how do you reconcile her natty dress with sleeping in an old blanket on the floor? (Not sayin’ you can’t…just askin’!)
Finally, the interesting thing about this choice of scene is that it’s not really ABOUT the two of them. It’s more about Reggie and the barista.
Which doesn’t make it a bad scene, by any stretch, but may not be the best way into exploring their relationship.
It’s like the information I’m asking for doesn’t take place until two or three chapters deeper into the book, or something.
I hope this stuff I’m saying is helpful. The fact is, your writing is really solid.
But you asked, so I’m tellin’ ya.
Yer instructional pal,
Skipp
Jan 6th, 2008
Allyn Garavaglia
Second Impression
By
Porphyry
1250 wds
**Word to the wise: You said make it fun**
“Whoa… hey, Hullo. Somebody left the gate open at the asylum.”
“I dunno, esse kin’na alright I think man. Maybe a few drinks, and the right mood– It’d be h’okay.”
“You know man, I am thinking there might be something wrong with you. I mean sure, the bod isn’t bad, but look at the freakin’ head. She could star in the next Hellraiser movie.”
“Yeah maybe, but I thinkin’ being right might be over-rated. Speaking of that, ju t’ink maybe they are like that?”
“Like what?”
“Ju know Essa, connected at the hip– so to say. Kind of like the leather and the lace… Ju know man.”
“Is there like anything you cannot make into a porno snapshot? I’m frickin’ tellin’ ya, ya need help my friend.”
“Naw man, ju jus’ all repressed or somet’ing. Got no fertile imagination.”
“What did she say her name was?”
“Midnight somet’ing, maybe. I didn’t hear so nice.”
“That can’t be her real freakin’ name. Who names their frickin’ kid something like that?”
“Maybe a stripper.”
“Maybe she isn’t frickin’ human.”
“See now, that’s not right emano. Ju never going get to Heaven that way.”
“I see, but if I was sitting here fantasizing she was some kind of lezbo or a stripper, Jesus is good to go with that.”
“He understands, it’s h’okay.”
“See now essa, che say they met while stuffing envelopes for da baby-seals.”
“Yeah, I heard that. I just didn’t hear whether she was for it or ag’in it. Did she jus’ say she writes poetry?”
“Si.”
“Why do they do that to themselves?”
“Write poetry?”
“No Saint Pervo, do themselves up like a freakin’ Voodoo doll.”
“Why can’t ju jus’ say fuck emano? I mean wit’ all time wit’ da freakin’ and da frickin’. Maybe ju should jus’ say fuck and be done wit da frick and da freak bizzy-ness. Ev’rybody ‘lready know what ju mean anyway.”
“Old habit from the military. Okay, so they both write. Is this like the common bond or what.”
“I tellin’ ju man, maybe esse more for da rassa.”
“Well if she is going to come out of the closet wit’ that freakin’ head, she might jus’ as well let it all hang out and say so.”
“All hang out? What is d’at, some old gringo proverb?”
“What I am saying is that she has control of these things. I mean, she doesn’t have to stick all those pins in her face and wear spooky clown make-up.”
“Why che should do d’at then?”
“Because she is probably a very attractive woman underneath.”
“Ju t’ink maybe che esse lonely?”
“I don’t know, but I do know that she is scary. And like attracts like. This city has more’n enough weirdoes already. It’s jus’ askin’ for trouble.”
“What trouble? Che has a nice, pretty friend Cameron. I t’ink ju prejudice maybe.”
“She’s said more today that she has said since this thing started. I mean, cute is one thing, and crazy is another.”
“I thought maybe ju like her a little bit. Ju never say anyt’ing bad ’bout her before.”
“Well yeah, I mean I thought with the sweaters and the nice dresses and all. She’s always been polite and all. The two jus’ don’t seem to jibe-up is all I am saying.”
“That’s not all you were sayin’, my friend– but it’s h’okay.”
“World seems in a sorrowful lot for the loss of decent and respectable folk anymore.”
“Che’s an artist too.”
“Have you frickin’ seen modern art lately, Che-sus.”
“Ju just say cheeses?”
“I’m originally from Texas Son. We have an accent and a few euphemisms that are all our own.”
“So am I, and I no say che-sus. Except maybe when I am eating tacos.”
“You’re Mexican.”
“I am?”
“Shit-feathers Son, I dunno. Let’s jus’ go back to pickin’ at Cameron’s friend and leave me be.”
“They write each other while Cameron was in the Navy.”
“Navy ya say?”
“No, che say it. I jus’ repeated it.”
“What was ta other doin’, sniffing glue?”
“College she said. Cameron went to the same college wi’ her after she was finito in da Navy.”
“The Navy’s alright.”
“Ju was in military?”
“Army, retired. I bet ya if she talked a little more, she might do better for herself.”
“Better than what?”
“You ever been to her bookstore?”
“Si.”
“I dunno, I must jus’ be getting old.”
“D’ose cowboy stories chu write, they are good I think. I like them.”
“Thanks. You remember that ghost story that Cameron wrote about that gal whose friend died?”
“Si.”
“You think maybe she had something to do with that?”
“You t’ink che maybe only got one friend?”
“That’s kind of what I meant earlier about her talking more.”
“Dunno.”
“Come to think on it, aren’t quite a few of her characters like creepy gals. Witches, old cat women, and shit like that?”
“So?”
“I’ll bet you she reads a lot of that Anne Rice nonsense. You know, queer vampires and what-not.”
“Maybe.”
“You believe in all that hocus-pocus nonsense?”
“My grandfather practiced Santeria. It’s h’okay, unless you’re a goat or a chicken.”
“Heh-he, I never knew anything that. Though we used to have this wild bunch of folk lived outside of town, had all of this Devil worshippin’ cult busy-ness goings on.”
“No good?”
“I’ll say. They mostly kept to their own, but they jus’ up and left one day without a word. Folk’ll tell ya some stories about what happened, sure enough; but nobody really knows why they left.”
“Why ju t’ink all ess no good, emano? I mean, what chu know about it?”
“I wonder if they let her dress like that when they go to plays together?”
“Ju should ask maybe?”
“Ta hell wit’ that, like it makes any never-mind to me.”
“I t’ink ju want her.”
“For what, a pin-cushion?”
“Ju marry her one day maybe. Livin’ la vita loca, he-he. Have vampiro babies.”
“Yeah, jus’ can’t wait to take her home to meet Mama. I believe I am little old to be hangin’ out wit’ the likes of her, Son.”
“How ju know what che likes? Ju no more wife– and judge say, che’s h’okay for ju now. Maybe che likes cowboys. Ju know, ‘Where ‘ave all da cowboys gone, la-la-la’.”
“There’s no la-la-las in that song.”
“Ju jus’ need some more imagination. Stop being so repressed.”
“Is it over?”
“No mas blah-blah for today, but I see you next week, eh?”
“I’ll be here. With spurs on.”
Epilogue
“What do we got here Freddie?”
“Double homicide. Two females, one in her late twenties and the other in her early thirties. Both assaulted, in one case in less than the usual way, and you can already see what’s on the walls.”
“Witches? Dykes?”
“Obviously somebody thought they were, but it was the fiancé of the artist that reported it. The other girl’s room has a scantily clad picture of Brad Pitt on the wall.”
“Any chance the Romeo is our do-er?”
“Doubt it, but anything is possible. He’s pretty shook up. I guess he had come down to pick up his girlfriend for some kind of show she had of her art-work. I guess she’s not half-bad. As an artist I mean.”
“What’s that carved on her chest?”
“An inverted pentagram. Looks as if the guy into some kind of Satanic shit. Not a clue as to what these two girls had to do with it.”
—————————————————
*Sorry, it just came out like this. *shrugs*
Peace,
Po
Jan 6th, 2008
Martel Sardina
Dear Skipp -
Thanks for the comments. I get it now and all I can say is “D’oh!” (Sometimes it takes a round or two for things to sink in.) I really enjoy doing the exercises whether I do them “right” or not. Looking forward to whatever you come up with for next month.
Martel
Jan 6th, 2008
John Skipp
Dear Po –
Okay, so…WHAT just happened?
There’s the ex-military Texan and this maybe-a-Mexican with the thick accent, and they’re talkin’ about…umm, lemme think about this…
Okay. There’s a woman whose name might be Midnight. She could be a stripper, but they’re not sure. She’s definitely all gothed out, and also might be into witchcraft.
She’s got a friend named Cameron, who one of them knows, but not very well. And there’s hopeful speculation that they might be lezbos. And one of them’s an artist. Cameron? Midnight?
Anyway, the guys agree to meet later.
And then two women — I’m guessing Midnight and Cameron — are found all carved up and dead. One of them had a fiance. The other one liked Brad Pitt.
Is that pretty close?
My first observation would be that, dude, you sure took THE LOOOOOOONG WAY AROUND on that one!
Whereas Martel kept David only peripherally in the scene, neither Cam nor her friend were actually IN THE SCENE AT ALL.
This kind of ambitious, friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, six-degrees-of-separation approach is certainly not unheard-of. It’s unusual, but that’ in itself is not necessarily a problem.
I would register concern, mostly, from the fact that
a) it was really hard to get a handle on what was going on;
b) I’m still not sure if I actually did;
c) I didn’t really learn much about Cam OR her friend;
d) I sort of promised Cameron that she didn’t have to die in this class, so now I kind of feel bad about that; and
e) WHO WERE THOSE FUCKING GUYS, AGAIN?
In short: I’m glad that the assignment inspired you to write a wild thing. I like wild things. And it was fun to watch you get into it.
That said: one of the things I try to help with most, in this class, is achieving clarity. Clear communication, with resonance and power.
And that’s what I think you should work on, before next class.
But thanks for coming and playing! That was cool!
Also, thanks to Cameron, for standing up here, making new friends, and dying at least once! CAMERON, LADIES AND GENTS!!!
(CLAPPITY-CLAPPITY-CLAP!!!)
And thank you all for coming! Hope it was good and infotaining! See you next month!
Yer prickly-ass professor,
Skipp
Jan 6th, 2008
Allyn Garavaglia
Egads! I had no idea that Cameron was a real person, I had thought that you made her up– sheesh. (In other words Cameron, I am sorry. Being the new guy ’round here, I really haven’t met everyone (nor anyone) yet.)
Yeah, running everything through dialogue probably wasn’t a good go for this (Especially of two fellow class-members and merely their own perceptions, prejudgments of the pair. And then later, two policemen. Just for the record, of course I made them up.) I will Skipp.
Po
Jan 7th, 2008
Celeste Talbert
He DID make them up.
I’m baffled by how complicated this all got.
Cameron is a fictional character created for the sole purpose of our lesson. We were to give her a friend, and the reasons why the two would be friends were supposed to be apparent. That’s it…
Jan 7th, 2008
John Skipp
Dear Po –
See, now THAT’S interesting!
If you had mentioned that your two guys were sitting in the class, assessing Cam and (presumably) Midnight, who was ALSO in the class, that would’ve given us some much-needed spacial clarity.
And spacial clarity — what’s happening, where — is VITAL INFORMATION FOR READERS.
Speaking as a reader myself, I completely space out if I don’t know where the fuck I am. My mind wanders toward someplace that it knows what to do with.
The next thing I know, I have put down the story, and gone on to something else.
These are tricks that are good to learn, if one wants to grab and hold the reader’s attention.
So you CAN do a story almost entirely in dialogue. Most stage plays are constructed that way. But you still have to stop, every once in a while, and ground us in where we are.
I hope that’s useful information.
Your very sleepy instructor,
Skipp
Jan 7th, 2008
Allyn Garavaglia
Hi Celeste,
“d) I sort of promised Cameron that she didn’t have to die in this class, so now I kind of feel bad about that”
That is why I thought she was real. Me complicate things? It’s almost like a hobby. Thanks Celeste.
Yes Skipp, I was kind of hoping that the dialogue between the two guys would work itself out, in as to who is talking and what was happening. I do not normally write like this, I just pushed the envelope a little too far, I s’pose. But yes, that was helpful and thank you.
Have a good one all,
Allyn/Po
Jan 7th, 2008
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